Dr Watson's First Danger Night
by UsagiRyu
Summary: In "A Scandal in Belgravia", John asks Mycroft if Sherlock is having a "danger night". This story imagines what John's first experience with a danger night. Contains mention of drug abuse and slash.


**Watson's First Danger Night**

**By: UsagiRyu**

**Fandom: BBC's _Sherlock_**

**Pairing: Sherlock/ John Watson**

**Rating: T for drug abuse and mild slash.**

**Categories: H/C, A/U, Slash (Johnlock)**

**Summary: Dr. John Watson's first experience with Sherlock's "danger nights".**

Sherlock Holmes cradled the tiny, bloody form of a young girl. "You're safe now," He promised, wrapping his great coat around her to keep her warm.

The girl blinked her eyes. "Are you an angel?" She asked sleepily.

"No, I am not an angel, Sandra."

"I think so. You will bring me home right? Back to Mummy and Daddy?"

"Of course, Sandra, of course. Just hang on. There are medics here to take you to hospital where your parents will be waiting."

"OK." Sandra looked up at Sherlock and blinked, her eyes going clear for a moment. "You're Sherlock Holmes. Daddy always reads the blog. I'm glad you found me. Tell Mummy and Daddy I love them." Her eyes rolled back into her head and she went limp.

"Sandra!" Sherlock pressed his fingers against her throat and felt nothing. He put her down and started pressing on her chest. "John, get over here now!" He shouted.

John Watson rushed over and started breathing for the girl. Paramedics joined them and took over for the consulting detective and his blogger. The little girl was bundled up and rushed off to Bart's. Sherlock snarled and stalked over towards the serial killer who specialized in young girls. He kicked the killer in the ribs. "You will pay," Sherlock hissed and pulled out a knife. He drew the knife across the killers hand then the knife dove lower and cut deep into something the man found precious. The man screamed in pain, alerting Lestrade. Before Lastrade could stop Sherlock, the detective ground his foot against the rest of the man's groin, destroying what was left.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade grabbed Sherlock and pushed him away. "Let the courts handle this."

Blue eyes sparking with rage, Sherlock spun around on one heel and marched out of the building. Watson watched his new friend depart. "Where is he going?"

Lestrade sighed. "I don't know. There were times…I think he's past that though. Just be there for him, John. He takes things like this hard."

"I will. I guess I'll head back to the flat and wait for him." Watson left the building and hailed a cab.

Watson sat in his chair, trying to focus on the telly as he waited for Sherlock to return. "Damn it, Sherlock, where are you?" He muttered and turned the telly off. He picked up his mobile and dialed Sherlock's number. He jumped when he heard Sherlock's mobile ring in the man's bedroom. "Sherlock?" He pounded on the bedroom door. "Open up!" Inside he heard a thud and a soft groan. "SHERLOCK!" John screamed and broke the door down. He found his friend convulsing on the ground, a needle by his side. "Shit!" He pulled Sherlock away from the bed and positioned him so that his airway wouldn't be compromised if the detective vomited. He clicked on his mobile and dialed 999. "I need an ambulance at 221B Baker Street. My friend had an overdose and he's convulsing…He stopped breathing!" Watson dropped the phone and started CPR on his friend. Sherlock gagged and Watson rolled him over onto his side as the detective vomited. Once Sherlock stopped vomiting, Watson restarted the rescue breathing until the ambulance rushed up the stairs with Mrs. Hudson behind them.

"Oh, dear, not again!" She wailed.

"Again?" Watson turned to her. "What do you mean again?"

"You'd better call his brother and then we'll go to the hospital," Mrs. Hudson shook her head sadly.

"Mrs. Hudson, what do you mean by again?" Watson demanded.

"You should talk to his brother. He'll know the whole story. Let's go, John." Mrs. Hudson pulled on her coat. John pulled on his battered jacket and followed her out into the street to hail down a cab.

In Bart's hospital, John tapped his foot impatiently as Mycroft Holmes walked into the hospital. "How is he, John?" Mycroft asked softly.

"No news. They took him straight to Trauma. I don't know anything else. "

"So it was definitely an overdose, then?"

"Looks like it. Mycroft, what the hell is going on? Why did Sherlock just try to commit suicide?" John demanded of the British Government.

"It wasn't suicide. Sit down, Dr. Watson, and I'll tell you the story of a genius whose own brain is tearing him apart." Mycoft sat down. "You see, Sherlock has always had a problem with mental instability. As a child he'd take fits and slam his head against the wall, screaming out very correct observations about everything around him. It got to the point that Mummy wouldn't even take him out to go shopping. He almost never left his room, much less the house. He would refuse to eat and just rock and stare into the wall."

"Is he autistic?"

"That is part of the issue. The other thing is that his mind will not let him rest. It will not calm down until he drops from exhaustion or he pulls something like this. Yes, John, he's overdosed before, I'm afraid. He couldn't handle school. A kid there was selling cocaine and that's where Sherlock had his first taste of it. Instantly hooked. It calmed his mind, he claimed. Mummy pulled him out of school and kept him home trying to get him to go clean. He'd go clean for short periods then relapse. She finally gave up and let him go his own way. She put him on a small stipend and asked me to keep an eye on him. I did try, but he vanished into London and I didn't find him until the police brought him in almost dead from another overdose and severe injuries resulting from a beating he suffered at the hands of his dealer."

"Have you tried anything to help him? Medications, therapy?" John asked.

"Everything under the sun and nothing works long term for him. I am sorry, John, I never properly warned you about his Danger Nights. I had hoped they were a thing of the past when met you. You've kept him more stable than he's ever been. Do you know what triggered it tonight?"

John looked down. "We found Sandra Kendrick, rescued her, but she died in Sherlock's arms."

Mycroft rubbed his eyes. "Ah, I see. As much my brother professes not to have feelings, to be a sociopath, he does feel, much too deeply I'm afraid."

"What do I do if there's another Danger Night?" Watson demanded. "Sherlock's my best mate. I don't want to lose him."

"Good, good. I shall instruct you in how to handle Danger Nights and I expect you to be there for him during them."

Watson nodded. "I will, I promise. I won't fail him again."

"Mrs. Hudson will have some input as well as she's gone through a few of them since she met Sherlock." Mycroft waved the older woman over. Detective Inspector Lestrade, who had just come in from another part of the Trauma unit, joined them.

The four sat down and planned out new protocols for Sherlock's Danger Nights until a Black doctor walked out and called "Family of Sherlock Holmes?"

They stood up and walked over. "How is my little brother, Dr. Ramsey?" Mycroft asked.

"It was touch and go for a while, but he's now stable and in a room under strict observation, per your requests in his file. You all may go and see him. He's awake, but groggy so he might not make much sense right now. He hasn't been eating again, has he?"

"No. We've been working on a rough case. It took far too long to solve," Watson answered.

"We'll make sure he eats while he's here, then. And who is Sandra?"

Everyone looked up at the doctor. "Excuse me?" Mycroft asked in a strangled voice.

"He keeps talking either to or about a Sandra. Apologizing it sounds like."

"Sandra was an eight year old girl who died in Sherlock's arms tonight. The last victim of the Toffee Killer," Watson informed the doctor.

"And the last victim that bastard will ever take," Lastrade spoke up. "I just came from the morgue. He died from the injuries Sherlock inflicted on him. No charges will be filed against Sherlock. He was only meting out justice. "

"I'll make sure of it, Detective Inspector," Mycroft said. "Shall we go and see my little brother?"

The group filed into the private room and found Sherlock propped up in bed, IV lines feeding into his hands and nasal canuals giving him oxygen. He blinked his eyes and mumbled softly. "It's Ok, Sandra, I'll bring you to your mummy…I promise…"

Watson gripped Sherlock's hand. "Sherlock, it's me, John. Look at me, Sherlock," he encouraged him. Sherlock managed to lift his head. "Good, Sherlock, good. You're my best mate, Sherlock, I'm here for you."

"Failure." Sherlock shook his wobbly head. "P'mised Sandra…mummy and daddy…" His head flopped back onto the pillow.

"You didn't fail her, Sherlock. Her mummy and daddy are here, in the morgue and they're with her. You saved her. She died free and not a prisoner. And she died in the arms of someone who cared about her."

"P'mised her…" Sherlock struggled to keep his head upright.

Watson stroked Sherlock's sweaty hair. "You did a great job. You stopped him, mate. Rest, OK? You need to recover."

"Don' leave." Sherlock reached up and grabbed John's free hand.

"I won't, mate, I promise." John sat next to Sherlock's bed. "I'll be right here. Now rest. Let your mind rest too, Sherlock." He kept stroking Sherlock's hair, feeling the younger man relax underneath his fingers. Finally, Sherlock dropped off to sleep and John relaxed in his chair, holding his best friend's hand.

Mycroft put a hand on Watson's shoulder. "He's in good hands, I'll be just a call away if either of you need me."

"You know, Mycroft, he could use his family, his big brother, too."

Mycroft smiled sadly. "It's a long and complicated story, Doctor, but I might be the worst thing for him right now. But I trust you to take care of him."

"I will."

Mycroft motioned for Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade to leave. As Mycroft stood in the doorway, he watched his brother and his brother's best friend. A small smile twitched over his lips. "I do think a happy announcement will be forth coming," he whispered and left.

On shaky legs, Sherlock stumbled into 221B Baker Street. "You broke down the door to my bedroom," he observed.

"I did. Don't worry, I'll fix it now that you're home. Mrs. Hudson wasn't mad." John helped his friend sit in his favorite chair. "Now, what do you want to eat?"

Sherlock looked about to object to eating then he caught the look in John's eyes. "Eggs. They're next to the eyes in the fridge."

"I know," John said and went into the kitchen and made up a quick fry up for a meal. The two men tucked into the food. John watched Sherlock eat slowly, swallowing with some pain. "Throat still sore?"

"Yes, but having a tube shoved down your throat does hurt."

"And your ribs too, I bet. Not only did I do CPR on you, the paramedics did too. Your heart finally started beating in the ambulance, the doctor told me."

Sherlock looked down at his nearly empty plate and stirred the last of his eggs around. He finally looked up, tears in his eyes. "I am sorry, John. I never meant for this to happen."

"It was an accident, Sherlock. You just start over at day one again, right?"

"That's what the group leader said, the one time I went to a support group. It…didn't work out," Sherlock grinned wryly.

John chuckled. "No, I'm sure it didn't." He could imagine Sherlock in a group therapy setting. It was a miracle that he escaped out of the group alive.

Sherlock finished his last bites of egg and put his plate in the sink. He curled up in his chair, wrapping his long arms around his legs, resting his chin on his knees. He stared at the ugly wallpaper, his mind going in circles. John sat on the couch. Sherlock turned his intense gaze to John and looked at his best friend. His eyes widened as he picked up something different; love. He blinked and shook his head. He looked again and again received the word love. He bit his lip and frowned. "John," he spoke up suddenly. "How do you know if you love someone?"

Shocked, John answered honestly. "You will kill to protect them, fight to keep them alive and live for them when life is at its hardest. And help them when they need it and they do it for you. You forgive them when they do wrong and they forgive you the same. If thinking of them gives you peace in your heart and mind, then it's love."

Sherlock filed all that information away and pondered it. "When you think of me, what do you feel?" he asked hesitantly.

John smiled at his friend. "I feel peace, Sherlock."

"No one has ever loved me before," Sherlock said.

"It's about time then."

Sherlock grinned shyly. "I…feel peace when I think of you too." he admitted. He leaned over the coffee table and brushed his lips against John's. John let Sherlock set the pace. When the world's only consulting detective deepened the kiss, John wrapped his arms around Sherlock and pulled him onto his lap. John stroked Sherlock's unruly curls. When Sherlock pulled away for air, he rested his head on John's shoulder. "I'm glad…we're friends…and…more."

"Me too, Sherlock. Me too." John kissed him again.

**The End.**


End file.
